


Lucky Strike

by vexahliaderolo



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Teachers, Denial of Feelings, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Slow Burn, critical role au, widofjord, will edit everything later when i write later parts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-05-07 09:53:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19206982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vexahliaderolo/pseuds/vexahliaderolo
Summary: " ... Caleb couldn’t help the way his mind committed every feature to memory, it was a skill that was both a curse and a blessing, and knowing that he would remember every dip and curve of this man’s face with acute accuracy for probably the rest of his life? Well, he hadn't yet decided which this would be."The one where Caleb and Fjord are tired teachers, finding each other in the messes and stresses of it all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back at it again!
> 
> This is just a short introduction to this idea/universe, so let me know if y'all like it or want more, i'm somewhat on the fence but pretty in to it.  
> Also feel free to weigh in on whether I should settle on Fjord's POV, Caleb's, or continue Alternating a la this chapter?
> 
> Also listened to a lot of Lauv and Troye Sivan whilst writing this, namely 'Lucky Strike' (obviously), 'I Like Me Better' and 'There's No Way', fun pop numbers w/ feelings, good listening for this I think! 
> 
> Thanks as always~

 It was autumn and the world was red; The bricks of the school buildings, the leaves on the wilting trees, Fjord’s eyes as he rubbed the hungover haze from them with the grizzled backs of his hands. All of it, washed red, aged and tired.

  The scenery itself could have been beautiful if not for the intermittent flashes of colour and sound that punctured Fjord’s delicate state with youthful vigor and short lived excitement. It had been a mistake to drink last night, he knew that now, his own naïveté — downright ignorance, he corrected, towards his graduation from physically peaking 20-something to “my continued existence relies on this espresso shot” 30-something, had been his downfall.

  Walking with no sense of urgency along the tree lined pavement he watched with still ebbing enthusiasm as eager students wheedled their way through each other’s space, twisting and jumping and running like they didn’t know they were heading to college. At 8 o'clock in the morning. On a Monday. He wanted to shake them, rattle those young bones and yell, “you don’t know!” He would warn, “you don’t know what’s to come!”

  Perhaps he was being dramatic, perhaps he was simply becoming the bitter middle aged man he accused his own teachers of being back in the day. But he knew better now. Untouchable debt and an unshakeable back ache followed him down every path he took, but he knew better.

  Each sip of coffee from the card-wrapped cup in his hands renewed him somewhat, every swig a burning jolt of life, and soon it was less of a battle to take each step towards his handcrafted slice of monotony; he could already hear the shuffling of the paper in his head, broad shoulders shuddering at the distant but familiar scrape of soda stained papers across his flat packed desk.

  Fjord didn’t hate his job, he hated the dull minutiae of the tasks within it, but he still fell in love with the crux of teaching every single day. If he could bottle that feeling that bubbles up in his veins when he hears a yell of gleeful surprise after a returned quiz, or if he could take a photograph of every shining eye when the answers clicked and the knowledge flowed as easily as a spring stream. ‘God’, he thought, whilst watching a gaggle of newbies practically sprint through the doors of the science building, ‘I hope you remember that feeling in a year.’

  


* * *

 

 

  A new term was always a fearful time; new classes, new people, new buildings. Everything was new, new, new! But Caleb had been here before, not in this exact room (his utterly beige one bedroom apartment that looked out on to, well, a remarkably clean brick wall) but he had been here, in his emotions — in his head, getting worked up over things that hadn't happened yet. What if he forgot his staff ID? Or his class notes? What if he fell, or misspoke, in front of 20 plus students? He was thirty now and still the bustling hordes of school children instilled a stone cold fear in him that only hell itself could warm. Inwardly, he berated himself for calling them children. He would have balked at the word if it had been used to describe him back then, no matter how accurate a name. He would fix the habit before class, just in case.

  When he left the safe confines of his building, his cat fed and stress petted enough that he might run from Caleb’s grasp for the next year, he could see the tallest of the college’s structures towering through the surrounding roofs of rundown shops and apartment holdings like his; tall and impressive from afar but up close the blandness of the thing overwhelmed all that might redeem it. Caleb had thought a similar thing of himself once, perhaps he still did, in a similar fashion to the struggling inhabitants of these rundown homes he never looked close enough to notice anymore.

  The soft, damp crunch of the already fallen leaves was soon drowned out by the harsh, dry snapping of a thousand sets of feet upon cracking cement pavings. It should, In theory, be a simple task to blend in to this crowd. Caleb had the posture of man who did not want to be seen and the nature tone wardrobe to match, unfortunately Caleb was quite recognisably a teacher; his fire touched hair swept mostly back from his face in to a small but still mildly untameable high set ponytail, a few stray tendrils framing freckle spattered cheeks before getting caught in the metal frames of the large glasses that sat crooked on the tip of his nose. One gloved hand clutched a bedraggled but beloved leather case as the other juggled a set of five envelopes, his thermos full of hot autumnal soup and the long, feathered cat toy he had mistakenly brought in to the outside world. Yes, there was a sign that flashed neon and sparkling above Caleb’s head that read, “I CONTROL YOUR GRADES”, and so it began.

“Good morning!” He nodded in what he assumed was a cordial manner at the small blue blur that joyfully slipped by him, paintbrush tucked behind a pointed ear, her smile aglow with genuine glee.

“‘Sup, professor, coming through!” He spun in almost a full circle as a young woman, muscular and tan, bolted by him. Her mouth was full of one half of the burnt toast she cradled in her right hand, and her left was holding the bulky strap of a backpack that caught Caleb’s shoulder with what he assumed was barely an ounce of her strength. This ritual of greetings continued until Caleb thought his body may just crumble under the expectations they preceded.

  Eventually, when the shading canopy of dying leaves began to thin out and the thick tree trunks were replaced with the thin metallic frames of old street lamps, so too the undulating crowds of young adults (mildly condescending try hard vibe but less full-time suburban adult, he critiqued) started to thin, and eventually he was almost alone. The structure he headed towards was old but maintained. The outer shell was built with rich burgundy bricks that were cracked in places, littered with holes filled by mossy growths and lit by the early morning glow. The sight made it a little easier to breathe. The library was his haven, his oasis amongst the bustling everyday of the collegiate lives around him, it was calm and safe and —  
“Don’t mean to be a bother but not all of us dressed for the weather.” a voice announced behind him; authoritative in tone but betrayed by its own frayed and tired edges, Caleb knew the sound well and understood the fragile health behind it, though he could hardly condone a teacher drinking on a school night.

“Ah, yes, I’m sorry. I’ll just…” He lifted his arms as he spoke. Thermos, he noted first then shifted his gaze, papers, he remembered second. He was staring at the door now, perhaps only so he didn’t have to look up to the eyes of the man leaning around him to glance at Caleb’s folly. He found, his arms laden with what his mind in that moment labelled garbage, that he wasn’t having much luck finding a solution to this particular issue, as he bore two holes in to the antique gilded handles with the sheer strength of his embarrassed, thousand yard stare.  He was still glowering when the arm reached across his shoulder, one large hand pushing open the heavy glass door..

“I got it,” Caleb waited for the irritated sigh or thinly veiled passive aggressive caveat, but there was none. “Go ahead.” The voice was low, still, but it was courteous  — cheerful even, now. Odd, he pondered, awfully odd.

  It wasn’t until they were both tucked inside the refreshingly lukewarm hallway of the library, a corridor notoriously cramped and unfit for prolonged standing or conversing, that Caleb even had the chance to glance up at his anonymous helper — and “up” was perhaps an understatement. Caleb was aware that he perhaps lacked somewhat in height (average was the word he heard most often in descriptions of it) but it felt entirely unfair to have to bend his neck back until he was sure it might crack, horribly interrupting the silence that encased them, just to catch a glimpse of the other’s face. This other man, the taller man, was facing towards the door at the end of their narrow limbo that hid the Library’s main desk and clerk behind it, this angle meant that the first thing Caleb really saw was their jaw, square and sturdy and sharp as the knife Caleb had snapped the envelope holding his mail open with this morning. As out of his character as it was, no one could have blamed him for the soft fluttering that started, threateningly chipper, in his gut. Whilst studying the mystery man’s profile Caleb couldn’t help the way his mind committed every feature to memory, it was a skill that was both a curse and a blessing everyday, and knowing that he would remember every dip and curve of this man’s face with acute accuracy for probably the rest of his life? Well, he hadn't yet decided which this would be. It was when the lenses of Caleb’s round glasses began to fog in the warm air that gold ochre eyes came to rest on him, accompanied in their arrival by a chuckle.

“Some help?” He offered.  
“I assure you that I am not always this useless but —” Tilting his head back as the heavy accessory began to slip down his nose, Caleb grimaced. “Yes, please.” He was rewarded with another of those warmly tempting smiles for his trouble, a valid currency it seemed, just before his glasses were lifted from where they were falling and his world looked a little farther away, and a little more like clouds.

“Well…” Through the haze of his unaided vision Caleb could see the fuzzy outline of green mass leaning in towards him, a strange panic swelling in his throat before he realised the other was just reading the already crooked name tag on his jacket. “... Professor Widogast?” Caleb nodded, the man smiled, it was becoming a habit, it seemed. “Luckily for you, I was here to save the day.”

With that last word the world was corporeal again, fixed and full of clarity. Caleb blinked once, twice, three times for luck, before returning a wobbly smile that was as crooked on his lips as his glasses on his face.

“I’d certainly be lost without you, locked out at least. Thank you…” With his renewed vision his iced blue eyes flickered left and right in search of the familiar white square of staff information. There was a brief window where it seemed the taller of the two of them enjoyed watching Caleb’s nervous dance as he tried to locate the object. After that though, out of mercy it seemed, he popped his hip slightly, the metal tag that held the plastic ID on to his jeans’ pocket glinted in the dim light of the hall and Caleb squinted to read the all capital font, he could save himself the embarrassment of leaning in to that particular area just for a name today.

“Fjord —“ He started.

“Just Fjord is fine.” He was interrupted.

“Well, thank you, just Fjord.”

Caleb watched with what he knew was poorly concealed interest as Fjord glanced around the corridor, to his watch and then to Caleb, repeating the process in a different order each time before he finally spoke again, all southern drawl and an unchecked anxious stutter that Caleb couldn’t help but wonder about on some oddly narcissistic level.

“I’d ask if you’d want to grab a coffee but…” He gestured to the thermos in Caleb’s hand and the professor followed his movement, committing the way his hand lifted to his neck to swipe nervously across the back of it to memory through no fault of his own. The combination of the sound and sight was horribly endearing, and without letting his brain pitch in, his mouth plainly answered:

“It’s soup.”

The silence afterwards was punctuated by a single “Oh” from Fjord as Caleb understood he had left no room for further comment on the matter. He could leave now, he thought, whilst peeking at the ID that hung at his hip Caleb had noted the words ‘science dept.’. They might never have to see each other again, his mind exclaimed in joy, he could stay in his darkened cave of archaic literature whilst Fjord stayed safely in the Science zone, telling the rest of his colleagues about the guy he met with sloppy glasses, that teaches English literature, and carries a soup full thermos that serves three. Oh, his mind would jump in glee just _imagining_ this reclusive scenario, yet as the party raged in his brain, his stomach rebelled. The butterflies that had swarmed covertly with every passing second that Caleb had spent staring up at this broad shouldered, soft talking, mild mannered T.A., now sunk in despair at the prospect of going without. His anxiety peaked and once more without waiting, his mouth mistook it for bravery.

“I would ask you myself, but…” This time he gestured, the action clumsy as he did his best to manoeuvre around all of the debris of his life that he cradled in his arms, towards the coffee cup Fjord held in his other hand, the one that hadn’t brushed Caleb’s ear as it slid by him to hold the door for them both. Together they stared at the card covered cup until Fjord shook it in one sudden action that made Caleb jump on the spot. It was only after his body settled and he found all of his extra pieces in place that he realised how badly that particular fright could have ended for him; 

“Not soup but it’s empty.” Fjord announced, and he laughed, and all passing troubles were forgotten. 

“So I guess we’re both going without.”

“Unless we go fetch some.”

“Together?” Caleb offered. They were edging towards the inner doors now, Fjord’s thicker body turning to push at the heavy wood with his shoulder, his eyes still firmly on Caleb, stern and searching for half a second before that welcoming charm filtered through again, rousing the flutters in Caleb's pulse once more.

“Two-thirty?” The other man returned. “Early finish today.”

Caleb nodded, Fjord smiled.

A thing, he mused as they eventually parted, this was definitely a thing.


	2. Let Me Down Gently

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " ...Caleb believed he’d never really understood the idea of romance. Maybe it was fear, maybe it was bad timing, whatever it was it had kept him from jumping headfirst in to anything that promised saccharine heart-shaped joy for his entire adult life. Of course this could never end well, he thought, of course one day the lid would have to blow. This pressure he had accumulated in his chest for decades now all culminated in the unknown terror that was slowly ebbing it’s way through his veins as he waited for Fjord — master of the seas and raising Caleb’s heart rate — and their now weekly meeting. "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again named after a song (by La Roux), once again unbeta'd, please enjoy!!
> 
> Sorry for the wait for this part, surprisingly I have been busy, I'll try to get the next part done a lot quicker - at least that's my hope!
> 
> I also, uh, shamelessly inserted a lot of R&J because... I love it, lol. Please don't come for my head actual lit students, i am just feeding my own appetites here haha.

   It had been almost a month since the first day of the new term, which meant it had been almost a month since Caleb had inadvertently started himself on an indescribably inconvenient roller-coaster ride of emotions. At the time it had seemed innocent enough, just the small beginnings of a friendship, perhaps — an acquaintanceship at the least. Every day that passed made it increasingly obvious that this was never going to be “just” anything. In reality he had known it from that first exact second, the moment when he had looked up, bewildered and nervous, and found a calming stability in the eyes that stared back. Caleb had never really been one for the romantic aspects of life, he’d never had the time for it before, or, in the moments that he did, he had purposefully removed himself from the situation when it started to feel _real_ . He had been heartbroken, he knew that much, but Caleb believed he’d never really understood the idea of romance. Maybe it was fear, maybe it was bad timing, whatever it was it had kept him from jumping headfirst in to anything that promised saccharine heart-shaped joy for his entire adult life. Of course this could never end well, he thought, of course one day the lid would have to blow. This pressure he had accumulated in his chest for decades now all culminated in the unknown terror that was slowly ebbing it’s way through his veins as he waited for Fjord — master of the seas and raising Caleb’s heart rate — and their now weekly meeting. It was a routine that shocked him every seven days. Caleb was a teacher, a professor of literature, and his entire job was based around a schedule, something he could understand. Unfortunately, the rest of his life had since become a well spread smorgasbord of mess. The meetings with the admittedly charming teaching assistant had graduated early from this dangerous territory and settled, in an unprecedented manner, right in to Caleb’s weekly routine, and he was in disarray because of it. Had he always had such a fear of commitment? Was this _really_ a commitment? Was it really fear? Neither of them had uttered the word “date” and Caleb was loathe to even think any harder on the fact he had ever thought the idea into existence at all. 

It was during this complex thought analysis that Caleb heard the lazy knocking at the window in front of him (a clean sheet of glass that made up the entirety of the coffee shop’s front wall) his whole body jumping in startled synchronicity. He lifted his gaze from the paper cupped americano that steamed from between his two wiry hands and instead stared through the thin glass ahead of him. Fjord, he saw, was staring right back at him and apparently almost as surprised by the light rap of his knuckles as Caleb had been. It took a few seconds before his features settled on a familiar brand of quiet embarrassment, his mouth tugged to a lopsided smile that lifted his cheeks up into his lower lash line, the hand that had knocked on the window now waved jauntily and the effect on Caleb was instantaneous. Mirroring the other he waved once, timidly and with little movement, before he smiled in much the same way. Of course, he didn’t notice the way Fjord’s eyes followed the curve of his smile like it was the way home. 

Fjord started to talk, or mime talking, behind the glass it was hard to tell what was the muffled sound of his western drawl and what was actually just the mish-mashed catalogue of voices from behind him. Gesturing to his ears to signify that he couldn’t understand Caleb watched as Fjord very nearly seemed to pout in defeat (almost hearing the click of the camera lens as his mind's eye filed it away), then put his finger to the glass, pointing at Caleb first, then the drinks he held; within a second he had already turned his hand over — handsomely rugged knuckles now facing the earth — and flicked his finger once, twice, three times. 

‘Come outside, with me’ is what it said. 

‘Come here, to me’ is what Caleb heard. 

He prayed to whatever was out there — whatever would listen even — that the glass between them was fogged enough to hide the reddened, peachy haze that rose atop Caleb’s cheeks, camouflaging the light freckles there, as he watched the action; in real life it happened once, in his head it played over and over, and by the time he was standing outside and handing the large, sweetened iced caffeine to Fjord he wasn’t sure he could see anything else besides that beckoning finger.

“So,” Eager to change the topic in his mind from what it lingered on now Caleb hurried the conversation along before Fjord could question the jittery behaviour. “This is a moving meeting today, yes? Where are you taking me and should I be concerned?” 

“ _You_ are always concerned.” Fjord replies, punctuating the pause with a grin followed by a shrug of his slim but strong shoulders.. 

“But no, I wouldn’t say you need to be. I just thought a change would be nice.” As he spoke the man in front of Caleb began to bounce lightly on his heels, his gaze flitting about all over the place — except for the Caleb sized space directly in front of him. 

“Suspicious.” He mused over the top of his coffee, squinting through the rising steam as Fjord only laughed in response then inclined his head, motioning for Caleb to follow as he walked.

They strolled together, Caleb’s average strides attempting and failing to keep perfect time with Fjord’s larger one, for five minutes. Ten. Fifteen  — Caleb stopped counting as they walked until the community of ageing buildings that made up the square around the college were so far behind them that they could no longer be seen. They swapped the uneven stones of those thin streets for the smooth, flat expanse of tarred roads; wide streets lined with large clothing stores and trendy cafes, a plethora of people hopping from one hotspot to another. Caleb had since finished and ditched the coffee from earlier, his hands were now instead deep inside the pilled fleece lined pockets of his jacket, pulling the material on each side to a taut point. The normally pale nose that sat proudly and noticeably in the center of his face was now frightfully red as he did his best to bury it within the thick wool scarf that was wound atop his shoulders. 

“Almost there,” Fjord bumped in to his side with soft enthusiasm, pointing to Caleb’s flushed nose, amusement in his voice that Caleb found to be similarly tinged with nerves. “I’m hoping it’ll be worth it.” 

The sky above has turned an angry orange in the early evening’s hold, dull clouds lit low by the light. The colour had never been a favourite of his, reminded him too much of familiar wild waves and, in his opinion, unflattering splatters of polka dots on alabaster skin; in this moment though, as it effortlessly softened every line on Fjord’s face, the twilight glow rendering him anew in its limited palette… Well, Caleb could certainly see the appeal. It was as he admired the heavens’ work that Fjord made a sharp turn, once more leaving behind the scenery Caleb had just began to familiarise himself with for something new. They entered an alleyway, or an offshoot of the main walkway at least, wider than the usual nook and thankfully lit to the end with quaint antique looking lanterns, they were electric but still the romance of imagining them lit by candlelight — even just seeing them as they were, buzzing with that familiar static hum — made Caleb’s stomach flutter. Halfway to the dead end that faced them (occupied by a metal bench that curved and twisted in hypnotising cherubic waves) Caleb was stopped by both Fjord’s hand on his chest and the rusting sign, set almost as tall as him, that swung precariously between two similarly flaking metal poles. The sign he noted, was in the shape of an open book.

“A library?” He mused, looking up towards a back-lit shadow silhouette, feeling the burning warmth of where their hand has been pressed to his torso, even though it now gestured excitedly towards the painted green door that Caleb thought must be at least as old as he was. 

“A bookstore.” Fjord corrected. Caleb wished he would move, let the waning sun illuminate him again for just a moment more. “An antique bookstore, these things —“ His hand gestured more wildly now, wide and vague circles twisting the air. “Old as hell.” 

“Oh.” Caleb said, a little dumbstruck as he looked the building up and down more times than was necessary for anything that wasn’t a criminal. 

There was a quiet puff of air and a shuffling of feet, when the professor tore his gaze from the rickety looking storefront he found a still unfamiliar disarmingly bashful expression settling on Fjord’s shadowed face. 

“Not what you expected, huh?” One large hand had lifted and was massaging the back of his neck, he seemed to be avoiding eye contact, pretending to dust off some imaginary dirt from his trouser’s now. “I just thought it might be somethin’ you’d be interested in…Though thinkin’ ‘bout it now you see old books all day, so this is probably not the fun activity I imagined. We can just go—” 

“Fjord.” Caleb raised one chilled hand, almost as if he might put his hand to the man’s chest but he stops just short before thin fingers curl in to his palm and his arm returns to his side. There’s a smile playing in his voice when he speaks. “This is good. I like it.” 

He didn’t mention the twisting of his stomach when he thought of Fjord’s explanation, the thumping beat of his heart behind his ribs as he mulled upon the idea that Fjord had looked upon this little shop, saw it’s unfinished, elderly charm amongst the busy swell of his everyday, unrelated errands, and had thought of him. Quietly though, with his pulse settled and his expression as neutral as ever, he spoke again;

“Thank you.” He said. “For thinking of me.” 

Fjord’s skin blotched a gentle pink at that. Even in the darkened visuals of the alley it was obvious, a dusting that contrasted so startling with his skin that there was no way Caleb could miss it. He didn’t and all the same, he did. The redhead looked at the taller man like nothing was different, like he didn’t see the hunching shoulders of someone shouldering the embarrassed weight of his feelings. It was easier, as most things happened to be, to act like it wasn’t there. Convincing himself that he was the only one whose palms broke in to slow sweats when the other was near, whose lips twitched into an unconscious smile just at the sound of that short, sweet name, and when their elbows brushed when Caleb stepped towards the doorway, he could feign ignorance, even as his skin prickled with goosebumps.

 

   The inside of the hideaway was as small as you would assume from seeing it’s outer shell; the ceiling was low and wooden beams peaked through a badly finished cream paint job, the bookshelves were a similar green to the entrance, a blue hued jade that reminded Caleb of childhood ventures to the woods near his home. The multiple structures were wide and deep, often leaning this way or that, and decorated with many small laminated placards that read, 

“Please do not lean on the shelves. They are older and much more tired, we promise.”

Caleb smiled, brushing a careful finger across the varying depths of the well-loved spines that littered the units. As he walked — though it was more accurate to say he gingerly shuffled and weaved, the bookshelves taking up most of the room whilst the spare floor space seemed reserved for newer, less valuable piles of magazines and papers — he could feel Fjord’s presence behind him at every turn, a harmless shadow that haunted him through the labyrinth. It was funny, he thought, to watch the other man pause every time Caleb did, picking up whatever book lay in front of him as if feeling that he needed to act as invested in these dusty relics as Caleb was. To that point, the redhead hadn’t picked up a single book, to a passerby he imagined they might assume that _he_ was the accompanying party, not the tall green-skinned man that stood holding a battered and bruised copy of Romeo and Juliet, annotated by a well-meaning but at their wits end student. The man frowned, thick, heavy-set brows lowering even more as ochre eyes scanned the pages. Caleb couldn’t resist. He stepped as quietly as he could back to Fjord’s side, small enough to remain fairly unnoticed in the other’s peripheral and, leaning as close as he would allow himself, spoke suddenly.

“It’s a play.”

The pay-off was subtle yet spectacular. Caleb swore he could have seen the dent of Fjord’s heart hitting the inner wall of his chest as he stood to attention, eyebrows shooting to his hairline in a comical, cartoon-like expression and a loud guffaw exited his mouth and nose simultaneously, the pages of the tome rustling under the flow of air. 

“What?” He answered, sheepishly glancing around the store with an expression that reminded Caleb of a child caught with his hands in the Christmas treats, a week before the big day. It was difficult not to laugh but, biting the insides of his cheeks for a moment, Caleb persevered.

“It’s a play. That’s why it’s written that way. It’s much better to see it on the stage, though I have enjoyed reading it in the past as well.” 

“I’m not sure if I should be offended that you think I don’t even know that much, so I'll reiterate that for you, Professor: I, a masters student, _know that much_.” Fjord scoffed, a subtle red tinge to his cheeks still lingering as he settled back in to himself after his fright. Now sufficiently reassured that he wouldn’t be removed from this fine establishment for breaking the hard earned peace he even managed a sarcastic smile as he snapped the book closed and tapped it once against the crown of Caleb’s ember toned waves. 

“Just looking for… Tips.” He continued. That was enough to capture anyone’s attention but it was the way his eyes followed the damaged spine deliberately as he placed it back in to it’s designated spot. Like he was avoiding something. Avoiding _looking_ at something. 

“For what?” Caleb mused, unable to stop the incredulous twist of his brow as he also kept blue eyes pinned to the fraying bindings of the famously romantic, infamously deadly classic. “Murder?”

“Well, you know, I was thinkin’ these books are classics, right? Maybe one of them has an…” Pausing his thoughts caught up to him, Fjord gestured at the poorly labelled array of books in front of them. ‘ROMANCE’ was written there on a piece of scrap paper that had coffee rings stained in to it’s crumpled layers, large rough handwriting mismatched to the gentle word. “An infallible plan, right?”

It was dangerous territory, he thought, to go anywhere with this flow. He could see it as he stood there, transfixed on that haphazard sign that flipped lazil in the breeze from an open window somewhere in the front of the store, he could see the river these words were creating, the flow of the conversation, the drop at the end where he would fall. He wasn’t ready to fall. Was anyone? His mind argued, there is a reason our bodies jolt so violently at just the thought. He didn’t _want_ to fall. _A lie_ . Harmless. _For whom_? The rally ended then as Caleb’s body shivered with that particular shot of reckoning truth, and his hand reached to steady him against the wall to the left of the bookshelf (he could follow these rules at least). When he chanced a look to his right, looking through his lightly sun touched eyelashes, he saw the bashful smile that sat lightly on Fjord’s lips and Caleb felt the shiver in his spine again; he didn’t feel the movement of his lips, though.

“A plan for what, exactly?” Did his voice tremble just then, at the end? Was there sweat beading on his face, or was it just the tickling of his nerve endings lighting up with the knowledge that he was going against the very laws he had lived by for so long? If either of those things happened, Fjord noticed neither, turning with a gentle sigh of a laugh and what Caleb noted as the tiniest step forwards that he had ever seen anyone take. I saw it, he thought. Do you know? Do you care? Is it the point? You’re confident, he praised inwardly as Fjord rubbed at his chin with his thumb and forefinger, faking the thinking he had probably done a million times over in his bathroom, staring at the mirror as if it were Caleb’s eye bag wielding, pale and freckled features. How brave, he commended in his mind, when Fjord’s hand brushed his as the younger man swayed his other arm for no reason what-so-ever. 

“Making someone fall.” That drawl was so quiet now, a whisper in the air like this was a library instead. Like they were sneaking through the book lined alleys for more than a story to read. “Making someone love me, I ‘spose.”

They were so close that Caleb could feel the words as Fjord spoke them. Hadn’t they been separate entities just seconds ago? When did it start to feel like every breath Fjord took had gone through Caleb first? Now, he found, he had no choice but to look up, head tilted and features lacking the defiance he liked to carry with him like a comforting security. A promise of distance. No wonder that once it had gone, he had become thoroughly surrounded. 

“And you chose Romeo and Juliet?” Unable, as he often was, to admit defeat Caleb offered a sarcastic huff of shaking laughter. He knew in this moment that his skin must be blotchy with the blush he could feel warming him and with a last, desperate grab for that familiar and sweetly alienating aloofness he continued. “They both die, Fjord, quite miserably in fact. Not to mention the rest of the very unsavoury events that just keep happening. It’s a non-stop unhappiness fest, you are aware —”

A finger, two, pressing his lips closed with a butterfly aggravating hearty laugh. He hated that he could feel it bubbling happily through his veins as it did the same through the air, soft breathes touching his cheek when Fjord turned his head to try and stem the sound. 

“I had planned to skip that part — _Those_ parts. Thought I’d just cherry pick some things,” It was as if he had only just noticed his fingers on Caleb’s mouth, or perhaps it was the cushions beneath his fingertips that gave him pause. His eyes settled on them for what felt like a year, at least. They flicked up, down, up again, and his hand slipped to Caleb’s burning cheek. With a clumsy stroke, Fjord brushed a curling lock of ginger hair back behind a freshly pink ear. Caleb thought he might not be breathing, taking in a huge gulp of the musty, dust filled air that sat between them just to be sure, stuttering it back out again when Fjord picked up where he had interrupted himself. “The good parts. All that about the east, you’re the sun, sinking under love’s heavy burden, did my heart love until now? I've been praticin’.”

It was hard to resist the laugh that tickled at his throat, enamoured with the way Fjord’s whole demeanour seemed to change as he threw the words out so freely; his accent was softer, rounded and from somewhere else entirely, his shoulders pushed back and he tilted his head as if he were staring off towards the romantic, waning moon. When he was done, and he returned to whatever semblance of normal he had crafted for himself, he looked at Caleb, softened in a way that Caleb almost wished he hadn’t as he tried to cut off the escaping chuckles. With one movement he was sobered. The gentle pressure of Fjord’s forehead pressing against his, the way the very ends of their noses bumped every few seconds as if determined to give away just how impossible it was to keep still when cornered like this. Every breath he could feel it, every heartbeat he swore he could hear it, would promise you that the room quaked with every pulse of it. They were perfectly hidden now, pushed in to a dead-end of particularly neglected hardbacks; the old electric sconce that hung on the wall — above where Caleb was gradually melting into the wood with every millimetre Fjord removed from between them — flickered every now and then, casting a charged orange glow over them one moment before leaving them in the dim shadow of the nearly toppling furniture that kept them discreetly nestled in it’s care. 

It felt like perhaps hours had passed as they both seemed to want to do nothing but stare at the other, a gentle nudge of noses here, a brush of someone’s hand there. It was hell, Caleb thought, passing shaking fingertips along just a half a seconds worth of the sharp line of Fjord’s jaw before pulling his hand back to his own chest, rubbing at the layers of clothing there, knowing that his heart was restless beneath it all.  

“You’re terrible at quoting things.” He ventured, voice soft and horribly undefended in the quiet of their surroundings.

“You could help me out, teach.” Fjord was smiling as he spoke, hair that was usually pushed back was falling limply into one eye and Caleb scorned the way it made his entire boy want to leap out of his skin. Hands were at his cheeks then, as if they had heard his inner workings and sought to keep him inside where he belonged. Fjord’s roughened thumbs brushed his skin, drawing soft little circles atop surprisingly soft flesh. The smell of coffee seemed ingrained in to his pores, comforting Caleb’s unnerved senses as it mingled with the equally familiar scent of old paper pages. It was easy then, to let himself falter, to lean in one hand just enough that he could feel the press of it, warm and inviting, denting his skin with it’s longing pressure.

They stayed like that again, Caleb lost in the moment, leaving himself to whatever his subconscious might will. Blond eyelashes fluttered as if to close when he noticed the closing gap between them, feeling the way Fjord’s hands began to tilt his head back just enough that there was a tautness to Caleb’s profile now, his mouth parted a hair's width almost instinctively, as if answering the movement. After falling into the motions with startling ease, it wasn’t until the slightest brush of Fjord’s plumply rounded upper lip, so close to touching his own -- yet still the air crackled with the tension between them, only then did he seem to return from whatever dream he had allowed himself to drift off to. Before the taller of the two could feel what Caleb had, the latter had pried them apart, thin fingers grasping thick wrists one moment before dropping them like they were as electric as he imagined them to be. He was panting, he noticed, sure Fjord had too. Soft breaths clouding just slightly in the now heated air between them and it was impossible to hide the panic that saturated his middle aged features then. 

I wasn’t ready to, he’d said, I didn’t want to, he’d argued. He supposed they were true, etchings of the bigger picture that sunk deep in his gut. 

_I’m scared to_. 

Caleb felt as if his fingertips were burning, every bit of skin was flushed with fever, aching, numb with an itch, a flush of red, all of it at once, like his blood was too hot for his veins. He was embarrassed. Embarrassed to know, to feel, that he was afraid. There was no way to love without pain, without your heart hurting, he had learned — he wouldn’t do it again. 

“Wisely and slow,” He started, only now managing to steady his breathing as he pressed his palms flush to Fjord’s coat covered chest, pushing him lightly until they were his full arms length apart. He didn’t look him in the eyes. “They stumble that run fast.”

Caleb swallowed around the lump that threatened to choke the words from him and did his best to ignore the cold heat of Fjord’s eyes on the crown of his head as he let it dip down. A cowardly defence, he knew.

“I’ll give you that one for free. I think we’d do better to both remember it.”

 

  He had retraced his steps along the road Fjord had lead him along in the afternoon alone, leaving the other man in the stuttering lights, surrounded by the failing bodies of aged books, knowing whatever reply he would find if he waited could never achieve what Fjord needed it to. It wasn’t until Caleb was at home, uncovered skin red and raw from the evening winter wind, with his key in the still unopened apartment door’s lock, that he noted the way he turned his head to glance behind him. It was as if he were looking for something. For someone. As if he was expecting to be followed. He couldn’t reason away the disappoint that hit when he found himself still alone, the taste it left on his tongue was sour and sharp.

Even then, it wasn’t until he was inside the slim unlit hallway, listening to the gentle tap of feline feet along the faux wood floor, that he realised he had repeated that sequence the whole way home.


End file.
